by Penny Ward
Which is about the last thing I need right now.
I don’t bode well with storms.
In fact, I’m terrified of them.
I hate thunder.
I hate strong winds.
And I hate dark clouds.
When a storm hits in the city I usually spend the day in bed, hiding away from the terror. But out here there is nowhere to hide…
Come on, Claire, keep those legs steady now. Just find the billionaire and get this interview over and done with.
Fast.
“I better not end up being stuck in this place for the night,” I murmur out loud, momentarily forgetting that I’m the one who isn’t supposed to be in here.
“The mansion really isn’t all that bad,” the voice reverberates out of nowhere, a deep and gravelly tone commanding my attention.
Damn.
My heart stops…
Slowly I turn around to see the tall, brooding figure of Jackson Windsor barely a meter away.
He looks exactly like he does in photographs: dark hair, magnetically russet eyes, a perfectly chiseled jawline and conceited smirk.
Damn.
Even though he has scared me silly, he looks seductively sexy.
And he also looks proud to have caught me off guard.
“You scared me!” I practically shout at him, my pulse going into overdrive.
“My apologies,” he says plainly, with no change in his expression. “You must be Claire Hudson…my number one fan?”
Ha.
He’s witty.
Well that’s something at least.
“Yes, I’m Claire,” I reply cagily, extending out a hand.
He shakes it firmly, his rough hand engulfing mine. “Jackson Windsor.”
“I’m sorry for just letting myself in, Mr. Windsor. I tried knocking several times…I guess you didn’t hear me?”
“Ah, my apologies again,” he says on the brink of a frown. “I was taking a walk along the cliffs, but do come in. And please call me Jackson.”
I give a meek smile and follow him out of the foyer into the main living space.
Now that I’m inside, the lead light coming through the windows is as bedazzling as I thought it would be, a flood of sun-drenched ambience that any normal house owner would need to spend tens of thousands of dollars trying to achieve and yet could still never get it quite as perfect as this.
It’s like the architect built the mansion to blend in with nature, “bringing the outside in” as the saying goes.
I can also see the paintings much more vividly now, each canvas as complex as the one before it.
I can’t recall ever seeing a series of images that were so fascinating, the swirling tones of color all encompassing.
Even the paintings in the Louvre didn’t grab me as much as these do.
It is obvious by the brush strokes that they are all by the same artist, a cursive white signature in the lower right hand corner of each one that I can’t quite make out.
As I continue to scour the walls, my eyes fall on one painting much more harrowing than the others—a silhouette of a suited businessman carrying a briefcase, but with his heart exploding out in shards across the canvas.
But the shards are actually people, floating black figures in tribal outfits with blood dripping from their broken bodies. It’s beautifully violent.
“This artwork is phenomenal,” I utter thoughtfully, daring to look at him again.
His hypnotic gaze seems to be questioning my comment, a cold curiosity to it that leaves me both intrigued and highly tentative around him.
“A compliment from the ruthless journalist,” he balks, offering a closed smile. “Now there’s something I wasn’t expecting.”
A compliment?
Wait; surely he’s not inferring that he’s the artist…is he?
“You painted all these?” I ask, cocking an eyebrow.
Never in a million years would I have thought a billionaire like him could produce something so… melancholically moving.
“I did. Painting is how I spend most of my days now. It’s liberating. We all need a cure for the things that woe us. This is mine.”
A cure for the things that woe us?
What he could he possibly need a cure for?
He’s a billionaire who ha the world at his feet and all before the age of thirty.
Even now that he’s a recluse he still has everything that money can buy.
But hey, there’s an interesting element for the story, Claire. Not only does this wicked billionaire have a dark artistic side, but also the traces of a conscience. Go figure.
As I go to probe him about the symbolism in his paintings, predominantly focusing on his portrait of the businessman, a sound like a raging squall suddenly rings out, screeching like a banshee in the rafters’ overhead.
“I hope you’re accustomed to bad weather, Claire,” Jackson says offhandedly, whipping his head towards the roof. “This hurricane is going to be quite remarkable.”
“Hurricane?” I waver, unable to hide the panic in my voice.
I feel my palms getting sweaty, my heart already skipping a few beats as my throat becomes drier.
It’s worse than I thought.
Why did it have to be a hurricane on today of all days?
A simple storm I could have handled…
“Yes. They’re very rare for the area, but the coastguard radioed me earlier. It’s definitely on its way. Looks like you’ll have to stay here tonight.”
Stay here tonight?
With him?
Is this dark, scary mansion.
Oh shit.
This is bad.
The man who I consider to be partly responsible for turning a blind eye to the Marange torture camp where people are whipped, beaten bloody and even die?
He has to be joking… doesn’t he?
“I could just come back tomorrow? Michosin is only a thirty-minute drive away, right? I’m sure the hotel there—”
“With all due respect, Claire,” he interjects. “You won’t make it to Michosin. The storm has already begun. It would be suicide to drive out in it.”
The look of concern on his face seems almost genuine.
So far he’s not exactly fitting the profile I’ve built up of him over the last two years.
“This hurricane,” I stammer, “How bad are we talking? Like wind speeds of 65-70 miles per hour?”
“No. More like 90. People die in storms like this, Claire.”
His statement cuts straight into my heart.
Deep into my heart.
I don’t need to be reminded of that people die in storms.
I lost my older brother Troy to a hurricane when I was fifteen.
He and two of his buddies had been fishing off the coast of California when it blustered up, shifting way of course from where the bureau of meteorology had predicted it to be and drowning all three of them.
It was a freak event, like the hand of God.
I spent weeks crying into my pillow, unable to comprehend that my brother was gone.
Troy was my protector – my guardian.
He always had my back.
I still miss him every day, and I still pray for him every night.
Just the thought of a hurricane brings a tear to my eye.
Since that day I’ve always had a strong aversion to storms, seething uneasily each time I hear about one on the news.
I remember watching the footage of Hurricane Katrina and the destruction it caused, claiming 1,833 lives…
May they rest in peace.
“Claire?” I suddenly hear Jackson ask, his eyes hinting concern.
“What did you say?” I reply distantly, trying to push the thoughts of Troy and the hurricane away.
“Are you alright? Just before when I was talking about the guest house, you didn’t seem to hear me.”
“Oh…sorry. I got lost in my thoughts for a minute there. Um, what about the guesthouse?”
&nb
sp; “It’s been made up for you. You’re welcome to stay there tonight. Although, you do have to cross the outside bridge to get to it, which I wouldn’t recommend once the hurricane is in its peak.”
“The outside bridge?”
“Yes, did you notice the river running through the middle of the mansion?”
“Indeed I did,” I say derisively. “It’s quite a distinct feature.”
“Well, the canal is actually the Canyon River itself. There’s an air bridge that connects the main house from the guest one as both were built on opposite sides of the river. So you can take your pick.”
“Oh…the guesthouse should be fine,” I tell him uneasily, but then secretly wish he hadn’t given me the choice.
My pride says no way to sleeping anywhere near him tonight.
But the humbler side of me, and probably also the wiser side, says I’d be crazy to ride out the storm alone.
I really should’ve opted to stay in the main house with him.
Good job, Claire. You’ve proven yourself to be a sagacious decision maker yet again…
“As you wish,” Jackson states indifferently, gesturing with his arm to a wide staircase on our far right. “I’ll show you to your lodgings then.”
I follow him slowly up to the second story and down a long corridor filled with antique furniture and more paintings.
I can already feel the fear flushing through me again, images of Troy treading water in a raging sea searing through my mind.
When a tree branch knocks against a window we’re passing and almost shatters it, I jump and instinctively latch onto Jackson’s arm, trying not to quiver.
Get a hold of yourself, Claire. This place is built like Fort Knox. Just try and relax.
“Wow. You sure don’t like storms, huh?” Jackson jests, peering down at me.
I feel my cheeks redden under his solitary gaze. “No. It’s, ah, a…childhood fear I never quite got over,” I stutter awkwardly before letting go of his arm and stepping back away.
I consider telling him about Troy, but the less personal information we share about each other the better.
I’m not here to make friends and bond with the guy.
I’m here for the story.
Pure and simple.
When he merely sniggers and continues down the corridor, I scold myself for even agreeing to come to this god-forsaken mansion in the first place.
“This better be one hell of a scoop,” I scowl out of earshot from Jackson, and make a vow to myself that hurricane or no hurricane, I will get the truth about the mines out of him.
The lights flicker out just as I finish settling into the guesthouse for the night.
From my bedroom window I can just make out the ruby orange glow of sunset across the water, the teal blanket chopping ferociously as the hurricane gets stronger.
I’m immediately regretting my decision again to be alone in the storm.
The hurricane isn’t at its peak yet; I could make it over the air bridge easily.
But before I have a chance to way up the pros and cons of where I should stay, I hear three loud bangs on the glass front door and nearly jump out of my skin.
I rush over to open it and find Jackson half drenched and holding an umbrella, the water flowing off it torrents with the air bridge barely visible behind him.
“You should really come back over,” he states sternly. “My backup generator won’t kick in. It’d be safer if we stuck together tonight.”
His eyes linger on me, waiting for a response.
After a minute of deliberating, I decide that he’s right.
The smart thing to do is to stay together. Of course it is.
Even if he is the man that I have attacked for two years…
“Okay,” I say with a quick nod, accompanied by a rigorous rumble from my belly.
I haven’t eaten anything today but the sludge they gave me on the plane.
Flying first class isn’t all it’s cracked up to be food-wise.
The extra legroom, comfy big seats, quick service and unlimited champagne on the other hand was quite exceptional.
“I don’t suppose you have anything to eat over there by any chance?” I add.
“I do, actually,” he replies, grinning deviously. “I’d just finished cooking when the lights went out. I hope you like oysters Kilpatrick and smoked salmon!”
“Honestly, I could eat a horse if that’s what was going,” I tell him candidly, surprising even myself with my change of tone.
On the plane I’d decided to remain short and sharp with him at all times.
Strictly professional.
And yet something in those deep, bottomless eyes is daring me to do otherwise.
I think back to my conversation with Hank and the reference to me potentially seducing Jackson to get the exposé.
Am I really capable of such a thing?
I’ve always considered myself to be a reasonable and morally apt kind of person. ‘We are what we do in this world, Claire’, had been her father’s motto for years, ‘and if being immoral is at the core of it, then we cannot consider ourselves to be good people, now can we?’
And yet uncovering the truth about Jackson and his mines could be seen as doing a great justice to the world.
I wonder what my father would think of my little ultimatum.
I suspect he wouldn’t be too pleased if I chose the former and somewhat seductive pathway.
But then again, he’s a public prosecutor, forever trying to find the injustice of a case even when it isn’t there.
I leave Jackson waiting at the door whilst I go and gather up my things.
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Claire,” I gabble to myself. “You’re both trapped in a hurricane. You can at least talk civilly to the guy and hear him out. Honestly, you’re acting like a precious schoolgirl.”
And just like a precious schoolgirl would find it hard to resist the captain of the football team, I fear I too may fall prey to my desires…
When we reach the house, we dry ourselves by the open fire in the main living room, surrounded by hanging deer antlers and more of Jackson’s evocative paintings. We eat the oysters and smoked salmon, a bottle of ridiculously expensive Shiraz also empty on the pine wood table between us.
Up until this point the conversation has been mostly small talk: the history of the area, the architectural details of the mansion, how many hurricanes this part of Canada has witnessed in the last ten years.
But now that I’m on my third glass of wine and feeling fairly confident, I decide it’s time to up the ante.
“So, my editor said you requested me to come here personally. What’s the deal with that?” I ask Jackson frankly, looking him straight in the eye.
“I’ve read your work. You’re a good journalist,” he answers straightaway. “You’re not afraid of exposing the sordid details.” He holds his glass up to his lips. “That’s what you think I am right? Sordid?”
He takes a sip of the wine, his eyes static and still on me.
I laugh weakly and polish off the rest of my glass. “Sordid is a strong word, Mr. Windsor.”
“Indeed it is, Miss Hudson. Another wine?”
“Why not?” I retort, still mulling over the rest of my answer as I watch him get up and head down the corridor towards the wine cellar.
When he comes back with a vintage Merlot he refills both of our glasses and returns to the black leather armchair by the fire.
“So you didn’t answer my question?” he gibes, staring into the flames.
If I wasn’t already half buzzed, I’d find him quite intimidating, but at this very moment in time all he represents to me is a very attractive man who has information.
Valuable information.
The flickering light of the fire has cast his handsome face into harsh, angular planes, an anger blazing there I suspect that has yet to surface.
I sweep my eyes over Jackson once more; despite my dislike for him I also can’t deny the sex
ual pull I feel towards him.
Every time I try to remind myself what a scoundrel he is, another portion of me tries to cancel it out, yearning for his lissome body and come-hither lips like an animal in heat.
I think I’m starting to come around to the idea that flirting might just be the right way to go about getting this interview.
“I don’t think you’re sordid,” I say demurely, tracing the rim of my glass with my finger. “I don’t know you.”
“Really?” he replies speculatively. “Because many of your feature articles refer to me as ‘the billionaire toy boy who endorses slave labor and torture camps.’ ”
Okay…he’s got you on that one, Claire.
“It’s curious that the publication even prints them,” he then inserts.
“Why’s that?” I ask defensively, not quite sure of where he’s going with all this.
“Well, the stories that have been coming out of Leading Edge Press lately haven’t exactly be stellar reads.”
“Sorry? I still don’t follow...”
“There seems to be a shift away from serious new stories in your paper, Claire. If I had to take an estimated guess, I’d say that this time next year the kind of stories you choose to write about won’t even be featured in it anymore.”
His statement comes as a hard blow.
I knew Hank has been directing the paper away from more important news stories recently, but inferring that they’ll be gone completely is a bit harsh.
“It’s true that my editor wants the paper to focus more on ‘pop culture’ and ‘sensationalism,’ which honestly I can’t stand to read about let alone write about. But I don’t think he’d be so brash as to get rid of serious news completely.”
Jackson tips his head to one side like he disagrees, the hint of a smug smirk on his lips.
“Getting back to what you said earlier though,” I continue. “So you disagree with those comments then? About being a billionaire playboy?”
His face carves into a wide smile, revealing white, even teeth. “Are we on the record now, Claire?” he asks with fastened insolence.
“If you want to be,” I say, batting my doe eyes at him and running my tongue provocatively across my lips.
But as far as I’m concerned, we’ve always been on the record.
